Ah, the dilemmas posed by motherhood. No, for once I am not referring to juggling paid work and the care of children, or even the lowered status of full-time motherhood.
I am talking about the burning question animating many households this Christmas. Should girls be given Barbie dolls?
I hate Barbie. I was once caught by a sister-in-law punching my niece's Barbie doll in the face, which elicited a worried enquiry about my state of mental health. I always assumed any daughter of mine would share my contempt.
She doesn't.
From the age of three, which was the first time she saw aforementioned niece's Barbie, it was unconditional love. I tried a bit of propaganda, pointing out that Barbie was an anatomical monstrosity. Her body was half the length of her legs.
Had she ever seen a human being with legs like that? If she were life-size, given her measurements of 40, 18, 22, she would be so skinny that her bones would be sticking out, except for her bust which would be too heavy for her skinny body to support. In fact, the weight of it would probably make her fall over.
I only desisted when I saw my little girl's eyes fill with tears. "But Mammy," she whispered, "she's beautiful."
Stumped, I stared at her. I never had nor wanted a Barbie or even a Cindy, but here was every fibre of my daughter's being yearning for my pet hate.
Perhaps the reason I hate Barbie so much is that if she were real her IQ measurement would be smaller than that of those mini-Alps she sports on her chest. Her coat of arms would have to include a cash register and "Shop Till I Drop" would be her motto.
The story that Barbie was originally based on a character called Lilli, a woman of easy virtue who featured in a Hamburg newspaper cartoon, sounds like it was made up by a Barbie-basher like me but it is apparently true. The Lilli figure was sanitised and reinvented as Barbie.
Since her debut in the late 1950s, parents have been uneasy about her. Some saw Barbie's very provocative proportions as inappropriate for small girls.
Others worried about the fact that she is the patron saint of materialist consumerism.
Still others wondered whether she would spur vulnerable girls into anorexia.
Not even a professional Barbie-hater like me could lay that last responsibility entirely at Barbie's door since she is but one of thousands of cultural messages which pound our children emphasising that thin is beautiful.
It is in the area of the depiction of the female form that the feminist movement has been most resoundingly trounced.
Despite feminism being more puritanical about women being viewed as sex objects than the most conservative Christian, popular culture is awash with sexual imagery which a younger generation seems to have embraced eagerly.
What is Britney, hyper-sexual and virginal all at once, except a Barbie with a voice? The new dolls on the market, Get Real Girls, sounded briefly interesting, but all they are really doing is replacing fluffy air-headed femininity with athleticism as an ideal. They exchange the tottering high heels for skis or soccer boots.
The Get Real Girls measure an allegedly more representative 33, 24, 33. Yet again, the image is bone thin, but just this time with bulging biceps and washboard abs. Their creator was too cute to make them completely androgynous, though. Each Get Real doll has real hair to brush and accessories to die for.
I am not so much a recovering feminist as to have ever given my son dolls, but there were some in the house which we moved into when he was a toddler. He took one look, tossed them over his shoulder and never looked at them again.
I did have a dilemma about giving him guns until his pacifist Dad pointed out that he had played with guns for thousands of hours when he was a boy and as yet was showing no symptoms of either being an axe murderer of a warmonger.
So my son got guns, to be followed by lasers, swords, knives and an axe with which he plays with great enthusiasm.
Those who say male and female roles are solely a social construction never reared children. Not that biology is destiny. My son loves babies and small children and is very good with them. Except for the fact that he despises Barbies and keeps pouring scorn on my daughter's love for them.
So there I was, hoist by my own petard. I had always emphasised the need to stand up for something you believe in even when others did not agree. My son never needed such tutorials. If I were to help my daughter learn that lesson, I would have to help her stand up for those loathed Barbies. I knew that our days as a Barbie-less house were numbered.
Then, at the Lios na n╙g Gaelscoil fundraising sale, there it was. A second-hand Barbie. It was money to a good cause and my daughter's dream fulfilled, all for 50p. My daughter was ecstatic. I did have a brief moment of worry that Barbie had had a previous incarnation as a voodoo doll until my daughter pointed out patiently that the holes in her hands and feet were to take accessories like shoes and hand bags.
My sister-in-law said archly: "I suppose this Barbie will spend her time acting as an advocate for asylum-seekers? Or maybe drinking coffee where the producers receive a fair share of the profits?"
Worse was to come. Second-hand Barbie had hair as knotted as a whin bush. One night I could not stand it any longer and took a comb to it. Five minutes in, I was really beginning to enjoy the experience of combing hair without an accompanying chorus of howls and accusations of tearing someone's head off.
When Barbie was suitably groomed, I found myself saying: "You know, she'd look a lot better without a fringe." I looked up to see my daughter hugging herself with glee.
"You do know, Mammy, that you are playing with my Barbie?" No wonder the blasted doll has such a patronising smile.
bobrien@irish-times.ie